She flashed a burning look at him; chokingly she cried:
"At least, thank God, I am not afraid of you, Bruce Standing!... Big brute and bully and ... Yes!... Coward!"
And yet, as never before in her life, her heart was beating wildly, leaping against her side like an imprisoned thing struggling to break through the walls which shut it in. His fingers were still locked about her wrist; his grip tightened; he drew her closer in order to look the more clearly into her eyes. Then his slow, mocking laughter smote across her nerves like a rude hand brushing across harp-strings, making clashing discords.
"You begin well!" he jeered at her. "We are going to see how you end."
"Let me go!" She jerked back; she twisted and dragged at her wrist, trying wildly to break free. His mockery stung her into desperation. With her one free hand she struck him across the face.
She struck hard, with all her might, with trebled strength through her fury. And, maddening her, he gave no sign that she had hurt him. Still jeering at her, all that he did was drop his rifle, so that with his other hand he could take captive the hand which had struck him. And then it was so easy a thing for him to take both her wrists into the grip of his one, right hand; held thus, no matter how she fought, hers was the sensation
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of utter powerlessness which is a child's when an elder person, teasing, catches its two hands in one and lets it cry and kick.... Suddenly she grew quiet....
"Well?" she demanded, panting, forcing her eyes to a steady meeting with his. "What do you intend to do with me, now you've got me? There doesn't appear to be any one near to keep you from woman-beating!"
"What am I going to do with you? If I knew, I'd tell you! When I do know, I'll show you.... If I could catch you by the hair and drag you through hell after me.... I pay all of my debts, girl! I have followed you; I have found you; I have taken you, prying you loose from your running mate.... You thought it fun to laugh at me once, did you? Before I have done with you, you would give your soul for the power and the will to laugh...."
"It is because I laughed at you?" she asked wonderingly.
"For what else?" he said sternly.
"And not because of a pistol shot?"
"Less for that than for the other. I allow it any man's privilege to shoot at me if he doesn't like me; but no man's nor woman's privilege to laugh."
"How do you know it was I who shot you?... Did you see?"
"Had I seen, I should not have held it against you; for that would have meant that you struck in the open, any man's or woman's right! But to shoot a man in the back.... Here; help me!"
She was perplexed to know what he meant. He dragged her after him, a dozen paces from the fire; still holding her two hands caught in his one, he sat down upon a big stone. Suddenly it struck her that all this time, since he had dropped his rifle, his left arm had been hanging limply at his side.
[Pg 163]
"When I let go of you," he said, very stern, "if you try to run for it I'll catch you and drag you back. And I'm in no mood for gentleness!" At that he let her go. He put his right hand to his shirt collar and began unbuttoning it.
"My wound has broken open," he said, with a grunt of disgust. "That Baby Devil of yours didn't care where he hit a man!... Here; there's a bandage that has slipped. And I'm losing blood again. See what you can do."
"Why should I?" she demanded coolly. "What is it to me whether or not you bleed to death?"
Fury filled his eyes and he shouted at her:
"You, by God, drilled the cowardly hole; and you doctor it!"
"And if I won't?"
"Then, as I live, I'll make you! One way or another, girl, I'll make you. That's Bruce Standing's word for you. Now hurry!"
She cast a quick glance over her shoulder; she was on the verge of breaking into wild, headlong flight.... But certain knowledge restrained her; she knew that he would overtake her, that he would drag her back and ... that he was in no mood for gentleness. Therefore, while her whole soul rebelled, she came closer, as he commanded.
... She had never dreamed that any man born could have a chest like that; nor such shoulders, massive and yet beautiful as the pure-lined expression of power; nor such skin, soft and smooth and white as a girl's, the outward sign of another beauty, that of clean health. Clean, hard, triumphant physical manhood.... It struck her at the time, so that she marvelled at herself and wondered dully if she were taking leave of her sober senses, that there was truer, finer beauty in the body of
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such a man than in any girl's; that here was a true artist's true triumph.... Physically he was splendid, superb.... In his own image did God make man....
With his right hand he was working with the bandage where it was taped about the bulge of his left breast; on the white cloth were fresh gouts of blood. Impatiently he tore at his shirt collar; on the bandage, where it passed about his left shoulder-blade, were red stains.
"Wait a minute," he commanded. "In my pocket I've got some sort of salve; some idiotic mess that Billy Winch cooked up; the Lord knows what it is or what he made it of; iodine and soap and flaxseed and cobwebs, most likely! But it will chink up the leak ... and it feels good and hasn't poisoned me so far! Here, smear it on."
... She felt as though she were dreaming all this! That wild, uncontrollable laughter of hers which swept over her at times of taut nerves and absurd situations, threatened to master her. She fought it down. She touched his back. She, Lynette, administering to Timber-Wolf ... it would be better for her, far better for her, if his wound were poisoned and he died!... Yet, as she touched his back, it was with wondrously gentle fingers. There was a wound there; the ugly wound made by a bullet, half healed, broken open anew under heavy blows. A little shiver, a strange, new sort of shiver, ran through her; here she was down to elementals, she, who with just cause and leaping instinct hated this man, ministering to him....
"Smear the stuff on, I tell you. Over the wound. Enough of it to shut out any infernal infection.... What in the devil's name is holding you? Waiting for the sun to go down and come up again?"
She bit her lips; he looked suddenly into her face, and
[Pg 165]
could have no clew to her thought or emotion; he could not guess whether she bit her lip to keep from laughing or crying!... She spread over the gaping wound a thin film of Billy Winch's pungent salve. As she touched the wound she looked for a muscular contraction, for the flinching from pain. He did not move; there was not so much as the involuntary quiver of a muscle. She wondered if the man felt as other human beings did?
... "Now a fresh piece of tape. That idiot Winch packed me off with my pockets loaded like a drug-store shelf! That's all for this time; we'll make a new dressing and bathe the wound in the morning. Now.... Here! Let me look at you!"
He crimsoned her face with that way of his. She whipped back from him and her eyes brightened with defiance. He sat looking at her a long time, while with slow fingers he buttoned his collar; his face showed not so much as a flicker of expression; his eyes were keen, but gave no clew to his thought.
The sun was already down beyond the ridge; shadows here in the little hollow had gathered swiftly; dark was on the way. He rose and went to the fire, for an instant turning his back upon her as he piled on the dead-wood which Deveril had gathered. But over his shoulder he called to her coolly:
"I've warned you not to try to run for it!"
And from his tone she knew that he had easily guessed her thought; for the impulse to attempt flight had been strong upon her the moment that he turned. She remained where she stood; if only it were pitch-dark, if only he went on a few paces farther away from her, if only the fringe of trees offering refuge were a few paces nearer.... She was quick to see the folly of making a premature dash; the wisdom in allowing him to think that she could be looked to for obedience! Thus, later,
[Pg 166]
when her chance came and his watchfulness nodded, she'd be up and away like a shot....
The fire caught the fresh fuel and crackled and blazed, sparks showering about her where she stood. Now Standing, his face looking ruddy in the glow, turned toward her, saying curtly:
"Come here. I want a good look at you ... in the full light."
"Brute and bully!" she cried, struggling with herself for an outward semblance of calm. "You hold the high card. But the game isn't played out between you and me yet, Bruce Standing." While speaking she came closer, so that she too stood in the red fire glow. She held her head up; she returned his unswerving gaze unswervingly.
"You've got the vocabulary of a gambler's daughter," he said. "That's what you are, eh? A gambler's girl and, in your own penny-ante way, a gambler yourself!"
"I am the daughter of Dick Brooke!" she told him proudly. "Dick Brooke was a man and a miner and after that, if you like, a gambler."
"Dick Brooke? Dick Brooke's daughter? Why, then ... the daughter also of a dancing-girl!"
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